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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27946922">5 Times the Rainsworth family comforted Break</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wandering_Crow/pseuds/Wandering_Crow'>Wandering_Crow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Pandora Hearts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>4+1 fic, Angst, Gen, Tragedy, transition of Kevin to Break</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:22:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,960</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27946922</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wandering_Crow/pseuds/Wandering_Crow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He does not understand them at times, this family of nobles who willingly sheltered a known murderer in their midst, the care and kindness they offer him without expecting anything in return, not even his full story or the reasons that had fuelled his killing spree. They offer him food and lodgings, in rooms more lavish than he had ever slept in, the silk or velvet sheets almost offensive to his senses, heightened and on alert, always expecting the other shoe to drop, always waiting for their mysterious motives to come to light and the darkness behind their polite façade to burst out like a reservoir of malice, the same way the Abyss had swirled around him, maddening and frightening, darker and more unhinged than anything he had experienced, with the girl at its center, her light clothes and fake kind personality a sharp contrast to the hell he was in. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Xerxes Break &amp; Reim Lunettes, Xerxes Break &amp; Reim Lunettes &amp; Sharon Rainsworth, Xerxes Break &amp; Sharon Rainsworth, Xerxes Break/Reim Lunettes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Pandora Hearts Reverse Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>5 Times the Rainsworth family comforted Break</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This work was a collab with the amazing Kuu for the PH Reverse Bang (check out the wonderful illustration that inspired this at https://twitter.com/qpeura/status/1336177796754903042?s=20). Also many many thanks go to firirune who was very kind to beta my story even at super short notice. Hope you will all enjoy it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <ul>
<li><b>Desolate: Sharon</b></li>
</ul><p>The Abyss lies behind him, a world of chaos and kaleidoscope madness that his feeble, much too human mind still has problems understanding, a world of cruelty and tragedy lying at the heart of unspoken secrets that none had had the courage to try to even touch after the Tragedy of Sablier. It is burned on his retina, in the vision of his remaining eye, surviving something he never should have, yet had craved with all his being, sacrificed and killed to achieve, to wash away his sins in the river of blood that he had left behind him. And all it had come to was a maelstrom of chaos in a world that should not exist and a girl, the Will of the Abyss, a slip of a being that contained more power of Destruction in her tiny body than anyone had the power to comprehend. </p><p>Oh, how he hated her, that girl with violet eyes and poisoned words dripping from her tongue, lies wrapped in truth and gifts with spikes that did more harm than reality had ever done. He had tried to atone himself, make right the wrongs caused by his very existence and yet, for all he had fought and sacrificed, the boon obtained from the Will of the Abyss was a mere cursed gift, a poisoned apple that stuck in his throat and burned him, spread knives of powerless hatred coursing through his very being as the words of Sheryl Rainsworth echoed through him, reminding him again and again and again of the disaster that still followed the Sinclair family despite his sacrifice. He had sought to remove himself from the picture, to remake their timeline and offer them the chance to flourish without the presence of a child of Ill Omen bringing misfortune to their bloodline. And yet, for all his struggles, the Will of the Abyss had granted him the boon he craved in the most twisted of ways, the new timeline destroying every little marker of the Sinclair family in the most abhorrent of ways.</p><p>His little mistress dragged to the Abyss after having sacrificed her entire family. The child he had fought to protect and offer a better future for, twisted beyond recollection, driven to madness in her sorrow for her older sister’s fate. And all of it his fault, his own twisted and selfish reasons destroying the one he had wanted to protect, the one he had cherished and taken care of. All because of him and the lies of the Will of the Abyss who had tossed him into a future that painted his folly in crimson rivulets of blood and spectres of those long dead, while expecting him to end his side of the bargain, to keep his promise to her just as she had kept his promise to him.</p><p>And she had; the Will had merely promised him a different timeline. The results and faults of this timeline fell on his shoulders alone.</p><p>The socket of his left eye sent a spike of pain, twisting his visage into something ugly and fearful as he placed a hand to the spot wrapped in bandages, his fingers almost digging into the hole that was there, another tangible memory of the Abyss, another remnant of his ill choices, along with a graveyard of bodies and a desolate mansion where no one would laugh ever again. Along with an empty grave of a little girl that had grown twisted and whose entire existence had been devoured, no piece left of Emily apart from his fractured memories of her.</p><p>“No, stop!” The young, bossy voice snapped him out of his spiral of self-recrimination, the hand moving from his face without his own accord, spots of blood left on his fingertips in what he understood to be the sign he had once again made his eye socket bleed. The young Sharon Rainsworth was standing in front of him, her young features scrunched into what seemed to be the best attempt at mimicking her grandmother’s stern look, although her lower lip was wobbling and her eyes were filling with tears by the moment. “Mama said you are not allowed to do that anymore. You’re just hurting yourself.”</p><p>He stared in bafflement at the young girl and her innocent audacity. How was he to explain to this child that it was no less than he deserved - no, it was nowhere close to what he deserved - that he wanted to hurt, to feel the pain, that he wished he could claw his other eye out as well, to gouge deep lashes down his cheeks, carve them in bloody red lines that bled and ached, releasing the agony that was roaring inside him by turning his body in a patchwork of wounds and bruises. How could he explain that even as he stood there in front of her, seemingly calm and steady, he felt the desire to hurt inside him, to lash out at others, at whoever, whatever was near, be it her or the rest of the Rainsworth family retinue, unleash the choking bitterness welling up inside him through the only means he had at his disposal, through death and pain and sacrifice. </p><p>Before he had the chance to speak up, to send her on her way with a few bitter words, to get her to leave him to his loathsome solitude, the tears overflowed and rolled down her cheeks, making the child look even younger than her years, younger than Emily had been and just as sad, sad for him as Emily had been sad to see him go, small desolate hiccups wrecking her small form as her small fists curled in the folds of her dress.</p><p>“Sharon-chan,” he muttered in a hoarse voice, disused from speech due to his self-imposed silence the past several days, trying to sooth her as he had once failed to sooth Emily. “Sharon-chan, please stop crying. I promise to stop,” he murmured, beckoning her closer and the slip of a child nodded in mere acceptance of his words, running into his chest and trying to wrap her small arms around his waist. Her little fingers found fabric and curled into it, her still tearing eyes and runny nose hid in the folds of his jacket as she tried to get her sobs under control, quieting down to silent tears.</p><p>“I brought you chocolate,” she sniffled, her voice muffled by the fabric of his clothes and broke the awkward embrace, her hands uncurling to show stained fingers and smudged chocolate. “To make you feel better,” she explained as if the reasoning itself had not been obvious from the beginning. “It melted,” the unhappy frown on her face this time was no mimicry of Sheryl’s but rather a gesture all of her own, brows furrowed in an unhappy mien and pink eyes looking disapproving at the chocolate, as if it had personally offended her. That alone, more than the hug or the tears or the scolding from before made Kevin smile, a thin, pale thing, an echo of happiness long lost, but one that he wished to offer to this child that had tried so hard.</p><p>It wouldn’t change things; he would still continue hating himself, still feel the phantom guilt of the Sinclairs’ deaths over his shoulder. But for her, he would try to stop hurting himself. </p><p> </p><ul>
<li><b>Kindness: Shelly</b></li>
</ul><p>He does not understand them at times, this family of nobles who willingly sheltered a known murderer in their midst, the care and kindness they offer him without expecting anything in return, not even his full story or the reasons that had fuelled his killing spree. They offer him food and lodgings, in rooms more lavish than he had ever slept in, the silk or velvet sheets almost offensive to his senses, heightened and on alert, always expecting the other shoe to drop, always waiting for their mysterious motives to come to light and the darkness behind their polite façade to burst out like a reservoir of malice, the same way the Abyss had swirled around him, maddening and frightening, darker and more unhinged than anything he had experienced, with the girl at its center, her light clothes and fake kind personality a sharp contrast to the hell he was in. </p><p>He cannot understand them, not when Shelly allows her daughter to roam unhindered across the halls of the mansion, unafraid of what he might do to her, unphased by the blood on his hands, blood that he still sees sometimes, in moments when his mind drifts back to the past, to Kevin, to the Abyss, crimson blood flowing between his fingers, staining the ground beneath him, never stopping, never wavering, the cries of his victims a cacophony of sounds echoing in his ears without mercy. He cannot fathom what they see in him, a murderer and a failure, a knight that had let down the family he had served for not once, but twice, his hubris at believing he has the right to change the past, damning their future for all eternity. The Sinclairs are merely a story now, a garden of graves that no one lives to remember, none but him, the very tool of their demise. He lives, despite his struggles to the contrary, whereas they are all dead; he had been a fool, a naive fool to think there was anything that a Child of Ill Omen could ever bring anything but misfortune to those around him. </p><p>“Kevin,” he is in the solarium now, somehow having found himself roped by little Sharon to come and have tea with her mother, though it is merely his body that is present, his mind far away caught in the endless churn of thoughts that never seem to leave him. Bitterness and self-loathing gurgle in his throat, his past mistakes almost written on every surface he can see, in flower, leaf and ground, bright and glaring, a never-ending staccato of ‘it’s your fault, your fault, your fault.’ </p><p>“Kevin,” Shelly calls softly again and it is only this time that he can pay attention to her, half dragging himself from his self-recrimination and glancing at her almost startled, his remaining eye peeking from behind a long fringe of hair that had seen better times and was in desperate need of a cut. He takes in his surroundings yet again, as if he had not been present when he had reached the solarium, his gaze moving from her kind smile - unwarranted, unworthy of, how could she be so kind to someone as him - to the rapidly cooling tea on the small wooden table next to him and the flowers in bloom behind her, almost framing her in a portrait of ethereal beauty. In another life, in another world, he would have been smitten with her, in awe of her beauty and character. Now, he only felt in her debt and wrong-footed, unable to understand why she was offering him so much unwavering support. </p><p>“Shelly?” he asked, her name still foreign on his tongue, still stuttered and barely audible in the solarium, the familiarity with which she had asked to be addressed something Kevin was coming to terms with as slowly as he was parsing the kindness he was being offered.</p><p>“I asked if you would like me to give you a haircut? Your hair is getting long,” she pointed out softly and part of him recoiled, the idea of a blade so close to his throat, a slip away from death, something he could not trust, not even when it came to the woman in front of him. Or could he? Could he put so much faith in her dainty hands, assume she held only the purest of intentions, believe she truly wanted no ill towards him. And if he did not, if he did not trust her and still put his life in her hands, if the blade came down to cut his throat instead of cutting his hair, would that be a tragedy? He would not be able to keep his promise to the girl in the abyss, would not be able to grant her what she so desperately craved. In the grand scheme of things would that be so bad? She had tricked him after all, granted his will in the cruellest of ways. Would it not be right to do the same to her, to keep her from achieving that which she wished.</p><p>“Yes, p-please,” he stuttered, before he could have the time to change his mind, before he fled like a coward from the offer, from the bliss of oblivion or the cruelty of belonging, from the one event that would cement in place the true machinations of the Rainsworth family. “I would be most grateful for it,” he murmured, not knowing what he would be grateful for death or the simple, unassuming act of having his hair cut, an action that would pledge his very being to the Rainsworths, just as he had pledged himself to the Sinclairs before, the ultimate act of trust coated in the most mundane of actions.</p><p>Later, minutes or even hours, he could not tell anymore, with the gentle snip of the scissors ringing in the air and the longers strands of his hair cut to an even length, with Shelly carding her fingers gently through his hair and Sharon plastered to his side like a small limpet he could not dislodge no matter what, he murmured, first to himself, the barest of mutterings inaudible to their ears and then louder, hesitant.</p><p>“Break,” he said to the two female presences at his side. “Kevin Lagnard is dead. My name is Xerxes Break.”</p><p>He could feel Shelly’s luminous smile behind him, brilliant as an aurora, without even needing to see it. He could feel the excited energy coursing through Sharon’s body, her small form vibrating in place, repeating Break, Break, Break in a delighted chant of approval. </p><p> </p><ul>
<li><b>Mourning: Sheryl</b></li>
</ul><p>He knew she would die. It has been an universally acknowledged truth, one both he and Sharon had had to learn to live with as Shelly’s frail body gave up more and more, as the woman who showered both of them in what had seemed to be a fountain of unlimited kindness and patience became bed-ridden, her smile subdued and her words softer, quieter, yet no less gentle. She had been the one to bring him from the edge that Kevin had tip-toed before plunging into the Abyss just to be dragged back up and set upon the same unsteady ground and left there bereft. She had been the one to give him the reason to cast aside the mantle of Kevin, to bottle up the hurt, guilt and hatred that churned in his soul and turn it into his driving force, use it to move him forward to grant the Will of the Abyss’ wish.</p><p>He had been expecting this; he had known it would happen. He had seen her slow, yet steady decline. He had consoled Sharon in the depth of  the night that no matter what came, himself and Sheryl would still remain with her. And yet, he had not been prepared himself, dreading the moment when he would stand before a grave once more, the wind blowing the hair from his face, revealing features oft kept hidden and unwanted tears rolling down his cheeks. </p><p>He had known it would happen. He had been dreading it. And now Shelly was dead and all that remained behind was her daughter and a gravestone with her smiling portrait etched on it. He was unsure whether he knew how to cope with this new loss, whether he would be able to mask the void that was tearing at him from the inside, the new gaping wound that nothing would be able to fill, and yet, he would still have to ignore in order to carry out his promise. A promise to a woman whom he had given his loyalty to, and another to a being he still hated, but would nonetheless grant her wish. </p><p>“Sharon was looking for you,” Sheryl’s voice comes unexpectedly, the simple reprimand hidden under her plain words enough to make his pale features redden ever so slightly. He had been coming to the grave now daily ever since the burial ceremony had taken place. In the beginning, Sharon had accompanied him and sometimes Sheryl herself, dropping roses on the marble slate and telling the woman now gone little pieces of information that either they or Rufus Barma had found, telling her plans of action for retrieving Oz Vessalius from the Abyss. Yet, in time, their visits had grown scarce and neither woman had been able to handle the hollow hurt that plagued them each time they came to the tomb lying under the sprawling Cypress tree. </p><p>“Sharon-chan knows where to find me,” he retorted in a fake cheerful voice, his hands moving to pop a piece of sugar that had been lying around in his pockets. Though Sheryl gave a soft mutter under her breath, unintelligible, she did not move to contradict him nor did she reprimand him further. She merely remained at his side, in silence, slightly shivering under the harsh winds until a pang of guilt hit him for keeping her outside, for his sake.</p><p>“Sheryl-sama,” he started, ready to propose returning, to ask her to go back inside, to a place where her thin shawl would be enough cover to keep her warm.</p><p>“She was worried about you,” the duchess interrupted instead. “Worried how you would handle her death. She would ask me to look after you just as she knew you would look after Sharon. She never doubted that, not even on her dying bed; but she was convinced you would forget to look after yourself.”</p><p>“I…” He could handle himself, perhaps was he meant to say, although that was far from the truth, his past life showing blatantly his inability to deal with the death of those he respected and cherished, his ill decisions having brought to much destruction even though they had led him to here and now, to the Rainsworths for whom he would go to even greater lengths for than he had ever contemplated to do for the Sinclairs. And perhaps that was the problem, his loyalty a double edged blade of devotion and cruelty, his remorse nonexistent in face of those who wronged the ones he held dear, the hatred he wielded as accurately as a scalpel and as deadly as a sword making him as much of an asset as he was a threat. Shelly had been right to worry, although it still moved him to know she had worried for her sake and not for the sake of others. </p><p>“I would not sully her memory by proving myself unworthy of her kindness after her death,” he stated grimly, gazing once more at the cold marble slate and the picture that still held a hint of her lively personality forever immortalized in ink and pastels. “I will continue working towards fulfilling my oath.”</p><p>“And take care of yourself in the process,” Sheryl reminded him tartly, her walking stick hitting him none too gently.</p><p>“And take care of myself in the process,” he retorted in a contrite, yet surly tone.</p><p>“Good. See that you do!” the older woman turned around and hobbled back towards the mansion, prompting him to offer her his steadying arm and leave behind the garden and mournful secret. The tomb remained behind a link that was twining them all together even after Shelly’s death, as it had done during her bright, yet painfully short life.</p><p> </p><ul>
<li><b>Vulnerable: Reims</b></li>
</ul><p>He loses his sight first; in a way it does not surprise him, this vicious cycle reaching its full course, the vagaries of fate playing their last mocking hand before the end that is coming towards him and shall reach him before he even has the time to prepare. Will he have enough time, he wonders, time to grant the Will of the Abyss’ wish, time to fulfill his oath with his dying breath, time to help Sharon, Oz and Gilbert, to be assured of their safety, to see them unearth the full details of the Tragedy of Sablier? Will he have time to say goodbye? The last one is the most implausible, the degradation of his body sped up with his last use of Mad-Hatter, the shadows and lights that had taken the place of fully formed images, a feeble attempt at seeing anything around him, more a derisive semblance of eyesight, a hindrance and a painful reminder, than a sense that can aid him. His lack of vision can prove to be a liability, his dulled and delayed senses a danger and a burden he cannot afford to place on the shoulders of the others.</p><p>Sharon should know. Sharon needs to know. And yet, as he stands in his room, with a towel draped over his head and half obscuring his features, he finds himself a coward once more, afraid to tell her, afraid to reveal how close he is to his inevitable demise. He does not want to see her tears, does not want to be the one to tell her that she will lose yet another person she holds dear, that he cannot promise to be at her side anymore, like he had been unable, in a life long lost, to promise to be at Emily’s side. He does not want to leave her, and yet he has no choice.</p><p>His musings are cut short when the door closes, Reim’s distinctive walk and silhouette betraying his lingering presence in the room before the other man has the time to even say anything. He had expected Oz to notice, the boy’s perception heightened beyond the norm after his time in the Abyss, his maddening rush to catch up with everything that had occurred and at the same time advance with their own investigation immersing him in a swirl of information and intrigue that he could not afford to not understand. He is surprised by Reim’s observation skills, by the other man’s keen attention still lingering on him despite all that was being told in the room and despite him trying his best to hide the new development from everyone else.</p><p>“Xerxes, you really can’t see a thing,” it is perhaps the tonality that makes Break allow the sadness to appear on his features, a soft, half-smile lingering as he looks towards the direction from which Reim’s voice had come and yet not seeing anything but light and shadows. He wishes he could see Reim’s features one last time, etch them into his memory for however long he has left, ingrain them so deeply that even as darkness will swallow him, Sharon and Reim’s faces would be the last things he sees. And yet, he cannot, the chance has already passed.</p><p>“I am not completely blind. The objects placed in front of me, those I could recognize. But even so, this too will fade,” he explained, his voice placid, calm. What use was panic when fate had already been set long ago, when he knew this would be the culmination of all his tribulations. There was no glory to be found in death for the wielders of Chains. All they could hope for was a peaceful passing. </p><p>“You are so calm.” It amused him, the slight doubt lingering in Reim’s voice, as if it were a prank, yet another Break was pulling on him, or perhaps a mistake, something that could be mended given enough time. Even so, they both knew time was something they desperately wanted, yet would not be granted. </p><p>“My entire body is withering. It is nothing I did not expect,” Break scoffed, annoyed at the notion that something as simple as blindness could stop him. “I’d need three days and this new development would not prove to be a hindrance at all. I would not rely on simple visual cues.” The energy drained out of his voice, his body slumping back onto the bed, clutching at the sheets, bundling them in a soft grip as he sighed. “To me, this punishment is merely redemption. What I had previously thought to be painful is simply a reality that cannot be pushed away. And even after all this, perhaps I will not be forgiven.”</p><p>But even so, for him it would be enough. He would not die saying he had not tried his best, he would not allow oblivion to catch him in its grasp without granting the Will of the Abyss her desire. And yet, Sharon’s face still came to mind…</p><p>“Three days you said,” Reim once more broke him out of his musings, “You will need time to get used to your new condition, if you wish to keep people from finding out about it. As you won’t be able to read, I will take on your paperwork duties. You push them on me usually anyway. Even if the Duke were to be upset with me, I would not care. I believe we both want to make sure Lady Sharon will not cry. Besides, it is my job.”</p><p>“Such a dutiful advisor,” Break quipped, the atmosphere settling into something too heavy for him to deal with, a hurricane of emotions battering at the shattered pieces of his soul, turning his heart heavy, with remorse, with gratitude, with surprise, he could not say, a myriad of thoughts scattered in his mind like falling confetti.</p><p>“I am saying this as your friend,” Reim raised his voice, annoyance stark in his tone this time, and his announcement settled the chaos in Break’s mind, narrowed it down to fondness and gratitude. “This is what I ought to do, Xerxes, you moron!” Before he could receive an answer, he turned on his heel and left, the door slamming behind him with an ominous rattle. </p><p>“He truly hasn’t changed at all. Thank you, Reim…”</p><p> </p><ul>
<li><b>+1 Dying: Sharon and Reim</b></li>
</ul><p>He does not turn to make sure Oz, Gilbert and Alice make it through, up the staircase and towards the end they had been fighting for all along. He does not even try to track their movement, his vision long lost, the fading echo of their footsteps too light for his crumbling body to take note of anymore. It’s the end, the last of his energy spent to drag them into the same plane of existence as him, the crumbling dredges of power fleeting, dispersing into nothingness, his knees giving way under him as he falls to the ground.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Alice, I can’t grant you your wish.” He had come far, so far from the angry and vengeful Kevin, cursing the name of the girl with his every breath, vowing to have his revenge for the cursed timeline she had created for him, for orchestrating the Sinclaris’ demise, creating for them a fate worse than the one they had been dealt the first time. He had come far from that point and now he stands at the end of his existence, oblivion threatening to envelop him, cruelly cutting him away from all those he holds dear just as they fight the last battle for the survival of their world.</p><p>“It’s almost too good an ending for me,” he whispers, the thought making its way unwanted in his mind, the question more a matter of curiosity than actual worry, the knowledge he had done all in his power to keep his promise preventing the birth of potential existential dread appearing as soon as one stands upon the precipice between life and death.</p><p>“Break!” Two voices shout behind him and he turns, tears trailing down his cheeks, similar to the one he can hear in the voice of his most precious people. He feels arms envelop him in a desperate embrace, feels Sharon’s soft cheek pressed against his own and Reim’s ink stained fingers curling around his own. It’s what he had yearned for. It’s too much. He does not know whether he would have preferred to die before their arrival, to protect himself from the agonizing pain that was tearing his soul apart, breaking it down in pieces, the same pieces he had been painstakingly putting together ever since he had been spat out from the Abyss. How cruel of them to appear, just as he had thought he would be able to exit the stage without becoming overwhelmed with emotions.</p><p>“Sharon, Reim,” he stutters, his words laced with despair and tears, the embrace becoming tighter, closer, his hands curling into the folds of the clothes, around their wrist, anywhere he could touch so that their presence would be etched in his departing soul. “I don’t want to die. I want to stay here with you.”</p><p>He feels their grip tighten around him, feels Sharon’s lips pressing gentle kisses to his forehead, feels Reim’s hand curling around his nape in a supportive gesture, their cries louder, unchecked, the sense of mourning palpable in the air. He wishes he could say more, steal a few more moments for himself, grant them a longer parting, but there is just so much he can stretch the final sparks of energy he has left. His consciousness starts fading, his lips mouthing a silent goodbye that goes unheard, Shelly’s advice from long ago echoing in his mind as he fades away.</p><p>“If you have been entrusted with someone’s feelings, do not let them go to waste. Keep fighting and struggling and someday the path you are walking will lead you to someone special. Because you’re you, you will recognize you carry their feelings with you.”</p><p>And then there is nothing. Merely silence and darkness...</p>
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